


oh, i'm crying now (authentic tears)

by fakefish



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crying At Movies, Crying During Sex, Dirty Talk, First Kiss, Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Nipple Play, Rough Sex, Top Crowley (Good Omens), oversensitivity, very mild angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-09 15:57:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19890484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakefish/pseuds/fakefish
Summary: Crowley has never seen Aziraphale cry before.He’s seen a select few of Aziraphale’s emotional extremes – he’s seen him light up with joy and his face cloud over with dread, the frantic desperation when he told Crowley he’d never talk to him again. But he’s never seen tears, even for all the times he’s seen Aziraphale’s face fall with grief, with disappointment, with fear.So he’s not expecting it when he hears sniffling, almost inaudible under the noise coming from the theater’s speakers.





	1. authentic tears

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song "touch tone telephone" by lemon demon

Crowley has never seen Aziraphale cry before.

He’s seen a select few of Aziraphale’s emotional extremes – he’s seen him light up with joy and his face cloud over with dread, the frantic desperation when he told Crowley he’d never talk to him again. But he’s never seen tears, even for all the times he’s seen Aziraphale’s face fall with grief, with disappointment, with fear.

So he’s not expecting it when he hears sniffling, almost inaudible under the noise coming from the theater’s speakers. He turns his head to look, too curious to bother with subtlety, and he does so just in time to see Aziraphale run a finger under his eye – wiping away a tear, Crowley realizes.

Aziraphale notices him looking and sighs. “Oh, don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Crowley says, not looking away. Something’s happening on screen, but Crowley can’t spare a single brain cell for it. Something much more interesting is happening.

“You know what,” Aziraphale huffs, crossing his arms and re-focusing on the screen.

Crowley’s tempted to reach out and touch him, lay a reassuring hand on his knee or his arm, but he gets the feeling the gesture wouldn’t be particularly welcome. “It’s okay to, uh, cry,” he offers.

He gets a glare in return. “You don’t always need to tease me, you know.” Aziraphale’s eyes are still a little watery. Crowley finds, somewhat abruptly, that he isn’t a fan of that.

“I’m not!” Crowley insists. “I’m serious. I’ve never seen you, uh.”

“It isn’t common,” Aziraphale says, looking back to the screen. “Watch the movie, Crowley.”

“But—”

“Crowley.”

His tone gets Crowley to shut his mouth, stern and final. Crowley faces forward again, and really does try to concentrate on the film – some romantic drama, which he wouldn’t bother with if not for the fact that Aziraphale asked, and really, it’s a bit concerning how easy Crowley finds himself caving in the face of Aziraphale’s requests – but it’s difficult. It shouldn’t be as odd as it is, but it’s _Aziraphale,_ who, over the course of six thousand years, Crowley has never once seen shed a tear.

Crowley wonders if Aziraphale has cried before, at times when Crowley wasn’t around to witness it. How often has Aziraphale been alone with his immortality, subject to the whims and orders of Heaven while he witnesses the humans he loves so much suffer and rejoice and fall and rise? How often has he been left to mourn by himself?

How often could Crowley have been there to console him?

He’s broken out of his own contemplation by the credits rolling across the screen. Crowley hadn’t processed the rest of the film, and hopes Aziraphale isn’t in the mood for discussing themes and motifs and other things he’s convinced himself he should talk about whenever they watch a movie.

Luckily, Aziraphale appears to be in no such mood, rising from his chair earlier than he normally would. “Are you ready to go?” He asks, but it lacks his usual warmth.

“Yes,” Crowley says, standing with some effort – the stiffness after a film is one reason he hates sitting still for too long, especially when it comes to theater seats. His legs are too long for it to be pleasant, and he always has to bend them to either side. He’s grateful that Aziraphale has never seemed to mind the intrusion.

Aziraphale is uncharacteristically quiet on the drive back to the bookshop. Crowley isn’t used to him being embarrassed – at least, he’s not used to it as an _unintended_ result of something he’s said. He’s teased Aziraphale plenty, sure, but that’s intentional, more for the effect of seeing him bluster and sputter and not for the purpose of making him genuinely ashamed of anything.

Crowley comes up to the bookshop, is about to pull in to his usual illegal parking spot, then makes a split-second change of plans and keeps driving.

“Um.” Aziraphale shoots him a look, equal parts confused and irritated. “You missed the bookshop.”

“Let’s go to mine,” Crowley says. “I have that bourbon you like.”

Aziraphale mouth is set in what isn’t necessarily a frown but definitely isn’t a smile, but offers no protest.

They don’t share any words on the way to Crowley’s flat, save for a muttered _thank you_ from Aziraphale when Crowley holds the door to his apartment building open.

Crowley knows he should probably keep his mouth shut at least until he’s managed to pour a couple of glasses, but he’s never been a patient demon. “Did you like the movie?”

Aziraphale pauses in his path towards Crowley’s kitchen. “Yes,” he hazards, clearly suspicious of why Crowley’s asking. “It was perfectly fine.”

Crowley nods. He manages to wait about ten more seconds before he follows up with another question. “Do you normally cry at movies?”

Aziraphale groans. “Oh, for Heaven’s sake – you’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Crowley shakes his head.

“Fine. Yes. Sometimes. Happy?”

“Often?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “No.” He turns away and goes into the kitchen. “Anyways, you promised me a bourbon.”

“Right, yes,” Crowley says, distracted, following him into the kitchen. He’s not sure why this is getting him so out of sorts. “And I just mean – is it just movies?”

“Sometimes books. Are you done?” Aziraphale asks. “I don’t see why you’re so caught on this, since you _claim_ you’re not teasing me. Which I don’t believe for a second _,_ by the way.”

A purely fictional image flashes in Crowley’s head of Aziraphale silently tearing up, curled up alone on the cushy, fraying armchair that he favors on the main bookshop floor. “I promise that I’m not, it’s just. I didn’t know.” He changes course. “Why that movie?”

Aziraphale gets two stout glasses from one of the few filled cabinets before he turns to squint at Crowley. “What?”

“You know.” Crowley flaps his hand. “What was it about that movie that made you, uh.”

Aziraphale looks skyward, like he’s pleading with Heaven despite the whole betrayal thing. “I don’t know, Crowley,” he says with the same vocal intonation of a long-suffering mother trying to answer her child’s seventy-second consecutive question about the car dashboard on a road trip. “Are you planning to drink or not? I’ve got plenty to do back at mine, you know.”

Crowley carefully doesn’t mention how much of a lie he knows that is, finally taking the bourbon from its resting place on his counter and pouring even portions into their respective glasses.

He watches Aziraphale bring the glass to his lips, take a slow, tentative sip before his eyes close and he lets out a satisfied hum. “Thank you.”

Crowley’s mouth feels dry, and he takes a hurried gulp of his own drink in response. The burn isn’t particularly pleasant.

“Why do you care?”

It’s Crowley’s turn to squint. “What?”

Aziraphale leans a hip against the black marble counter while he swirls his bourbon in its glass. “Why does it matter to you if I get – _emotional,_ from time to time?”

Crowley feels his own shoulders tense. “I’ve never seen you cry before,” he says, repeating his sentiment from earlier. “It’s different.”

Aziraphale studies him for a moment, then starts to smile. “My dear,” he starts, “were you _worried?_ ”

“Uh.”

“Oh, _Crowley._ ” Aziraphale places his free hand over his own chest, smiling brighter, the edges of a smirk tainting what would otherwise come across as innocent joy. “I didn’t know you cared.”

“Shut up,” Crowley mutters. He looks down to discover he’s already drained his glass. Damnit.

Aziraphale laughs. “I mean it, dear, really. You aren’t one to worry about me.”

That makes Crowley frown. “Angel, I worry about you all the time.”

Aziraphale blinks, pausing where he’d been about to take another drink. “I’m sorry?”

“I – you – how could you _miss_ that I – ugh.” Crowley cuts himself off.

Aziraphale shakes his head, putting his own glass down and pushing off the counter to take a step in Crowley’s direction. “What did I miss?”

Crowley sighs. “France? Guillotines? The bookshop burning? I – you know I, um.” He shrugs. “I prefer you safe, is all.” He looks at the surprised look on Aziraphale’s face and scoffs. “Oh, come on. As if you didn’t know.”

“I – well.” Aziraphale comes to stand next to Crowley, hovering awkwardly. “I suppose I _did,_ kind of, but not really.” He audibly swallows. “You know I care about – prefer you safe, too.”

Crowley wishes he hadn’t taken his sunglasses off in the elevator on their way up. But before he can make any move towards changing the subject or lightening the mood, Aziraphale reaches out, slow and tentative, to brush his fingers against Crowley’s upper arm.

“Can I—” Aziraphale starts, then stops himself. He steps closer into Crowley’s space, arms spread just a bit, and this isn’t a thing they do but Aziraphale’s asking for a hug and really, Crowley’s pride has already taken a hit tonight, so he might as well.

Anyways, it’s purely to comfort his friend. Crowley has no selfish motivations here.

Aziraphale leans heavy into the contact, pressing his face into the space between Crowley’s neck and shoulder, arms wrapped around his back. Crowley, for his part, has no idea what to do, and after a few moments of letting his arms hang limp at his sides he remembers he should probably hug Aziraphale back.

It’s worth it when he does to feel Aziraphale’s arms tighten around him.

Crowley doesn’t know how long they stand there like that – minutes, hours, it could be a century for all he knows. What he _does_ know is that he has absolutely no desire to move, and it would seem that for Aziraphale, the feeling is mutual.

Eventually, though, Aziraphale speaks. “Crowley?”

Crowley, who’s had his nose buried in Aziraphale’s hair for the past indeterminate period of time, hums. “Yes?”

“Should we talk about this?”

“Talk about what?”

Aziraphale pulls back, just enough that it forces them face-to-face. “The whole, um. Caring about each other, thing.”

“Oh.” Crowley wants to look away, but also he doesn’t want to, like, ever. “I mean. I regret that I didn’t make sure that you already knew, so.”

“You knew, right?” Aziraphale asks. He looks a bit sad. “Oh, dear, if you didn’t, I’m sorry, I—”

Crowley starts to wave him off before he remembers that his hands are still behind Aziraphale. “I knew.” He chuckles. “Bit difficult for an angel not to care about things.”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “You’ve been up there, Crowley. You know as well as I do that caring was never in the job description.” He looks up. “I care about _you._ Specifically.”

“Ah.” Crowley doesn’t know what to do with that. “That’s, um, good, then.”

Aziraphale stares at him for a few more moments, then huffs. “Oh, fuck it.”

Crowley only has a moment to be shocked (and delighted) about _that_ particular phrase coming from Aziraphale’s lips before those lips are on his, hungry and hard and not hesitant in the slightest. He’s probing at the closed seam of Crowley’s own mouth before Crowley remembers that he should probably respond in some way. He very cleverly decides to do this by letting Aziraphale’s tongue in.

Aziraphale moves away from Crowley’s lips, darts in to bite up the side of Crowley’s jaw on a brutal path to his ear before Crowley has a chance to protest. A small, hanging portion of fat and flesh shouldn’t be so sensitive, and yet, when Aziraphale takes Crowley’s earlobe between his teeth, Crowley moans, loud and embarrassing.

He feels Aziraphale smile. “Is that good?”

Crowley fists his hand in Aziraphale’s hair and yanks him away so that he can see his face, flush and blown pupils and all. “I can think of something better.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

He’s answered when Crowley runs his other hand down to press through the crotch of Aziraphale’s trousers. “ _Oh,_ ” Aziraphale says again, arching into the touch for just a moment before he grabs Crowley’s hand and steps back. “Right. We should—”

Crowley nods, frantic. “Yes.”

“Bedroom?”

“ _Yes._ ”

***

Aziraphale’s resting his head in the crook of Crowley’s armpit, tracing meandering patterns on his chest. Their legs are tangled together, it’s very warm, and Crowley’s fairly certain he’s never been happier.

A thought strikes him. “D’you think I can get you to cry during sex?”

Aziraphale groans.

Then he thinks about it.

“I suppose you’re welcome to try.”


	2. if i make it through tonight (everybody's gonna hear me out)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale still thinks Crowley moves fast. There’s a difference, though, between now and the 1960s, because Aziraphale’s learned to speed up over the years. Therefore, he’s more than prepared when he and Crowley come together again not even an hour after their first – romp in the sheets, so to say.
> 
> Crowley’s earlier question hangs heavy in the air – _d’you think I can make you cry?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title once again a lyric from lemon demon's touch tone telephone.
> 
> some nasty content for y'all to enjoy!

Aziraphale still thinks Crowley moves fast. There’s a difference, though, between now and the 1960s, because Aziraphale’s learned to speed up over the years. Therefore, he’s more than prepared when he and Crowley come together again not even an hour after their first – _romp in the sheets,_ so to say.

Crowley’s earlier question hangs heavy in the air – _d’you think I can make you cry?_

He’s off to an excellent start. Aziraphale hadn’t known, before, how sensitive his nipples were; he’s more than grateful to Crowley for showing him, and showing him, and showing him.

Aziraphale feels Crowley fasten his teeth around his nipple, the sharper points of his not-quite-human incisors digging into the sensitive skin, and oh, _oh._ He arches into the feeling and knows Crowley would be smirking were his mouth not otherwise occupied. As it is, Crowley just continues his ministrations, sometimes dragging his forked tongue over and around the hard nub, sometimes latching on with his teeth and tugging, hard.

Sometimes Aziraphale wonders how Crowley ever managed as a demon. For all the petty temptations he casts, he isn’t outright cruel, no matter how many times he’s insisted that he isn’t _nice,_ or any other four-letter word Aziraphale could come up with.

When he feels Crowley take his other nipple between his fingers and twist, he admits he may have been wrong about that.

“Crowley, that _hurts,_ ” he whines, and Crowley only hesitates for a moment before he – fuck, does it again.

“I don’t think you mind.” Crowley bites and twists at the same time and Aziraphale cries out, feels his cock jerk in response, feels a thin trail of precome spread across his stomach. Crowley’s own body is still out of reach, raised far enough that Aziraphale can’t get any relief from the friction of their bodies pressed together. He tries anyways, a weak, desperate thrust that doesn’t garner any reward, just a mean smirk from Crowley.

Crowley pushes up so he’s nose-to-nose with Aziraphale, close enough that Aziraphale can count the almost-imperceptible freckles smattered across his nose, his cheeks – or, he _could,_ rather, were it not for the fact his brain is completely shot.

“Hello,” Crowley murmurs, smug as anything. Aziraphale does not find it charming.

“You’re a bastard.”

“Job description.” Crowley pinches Aziraphale’s nipple again, laughs when Aziraphale squirms. “Tearing up yet?”

Aziraphale scowls. “No.”

“You’re a hard sell.”

“You know,” Aziraphale says, “just earlier, you seemed very against the idea of me crying.”

Crowley grins. “Wasn’t in this context.”

Suddenly, the world flips – no, wait, Aziraphale’s flipping, finding himself pressed face-down into the bed as Crowley grabs at his hips and hitches them up. Aziraphale’s nipples, already sensitive, become increasingly so as his chest rubs against the duvet.

There’s a bottle of lube on the table, summoned there at some point by Crowley, and Crowley wastes no time in reaching over to dump it over his hands. He’s generous with the amount, and some of the excess drips onto Aziraphale’s ass. Large hands spread Aziraphale open, exposing him, and Crowley works one finger into his hole slightly too quick for comfort.

“A-ah,” Aziraphale gasps, “please.”

“Anything,” Crowley says. Another finger breaches him. It’s not nearly enough. Luckily, Crowley is indeed, deep down, a good person, and doesn’t make Aziraphale wait long before he lines himself up and pushes in, keeps going slow and steady until he bottoms out. He performs a maneuver that Aziraphale believes is known as the reach-around, but can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter – Aziraphale, quite frankly, couldn’t give less of a shit about sexual vernacular at the moment.

Crowley’s hand works over Aziraphale’s cock as he pounds into him, fingers tight and punishing around the shaft, making an absolute mess – Aziraphale can feel himself dripping, disgusting in the best possible way, slicked up with his own spend and shameless for more. He’s still hard, because what’s the point of being immortal if he doesn’t have a nonexistent refractory period in turn, but oh _fuck,_ he’s oversensitive anyways, almost to the point of hurting.

“Slut,” Crowley purrs, less like an insult and more like a prayer, and Aziraphale cries out. Not in protest, because –

 _“Yes,_ ” he hisses, “I am, I, oh, Crowley, please keep going—”

Crowley slows his thrusts until he’s stilled himself, takes his hand off Aziraphale’s cock, and Aziraphale means to protest, but he’s interrupted by the feeling of something else pushing into him. He trembles – the stretch is too much and not enough and he wants Crowley’s cock, and the finger now pushed in alongside his cock, and the rest of his damned hand. He wants to feel _stuffed._

“You like that?” Crowley begins to move again, stuffing a second finger deep into Aziraphale’s ass as he thrusts his cock in. It’s slick with Aziraphale’s own come. “Or is it not enough for you?” He rubs his thumb around Aziraphale’s stretched rim.

Aziraphale has to bite the bedcover to keep from crying out.

“Oh, _now_ you try to be quiet.” Crowley clucks his tongue. “I’m not sure I appreciate that.” He leans over so he’s bearing Aziraphale down into the bed with his whole body, then bites hard into the side of Aziraphale’s neck. His serpentine teeth pierce the skin, just barely.

Aziraphale wails – he’s so close.

He feels Crowley shift, feels a dip in the mattress next to him, and before he knows it fingers are being stuffed into his mouth, deep enough to activate the gag reflex that he doesn’t technically need to have but that he’d decided would be appropriate for the occasion.

It’s a lot, and Aziraphale feels his eyes start to sting, vision blurring as tears begin to gather.

Crowley thrusts in, hard, almost shoving Aziraphale’s head into the bedframe, and Aziraphale breaks for the second time, coming hard over the duvet as tears spill over onto his cheeks.

“Darling, _Crowley,_ ” he sobs, and it’s only a few more thrusts until he feels Crowley spill into him, hot and wet.

Dear lord – or, someone else, rather, because She certainly doesn’t need to see this – Aziraphale feels _filthy._

“Angel,” Crowley groans, stilling after a few more weak thrusts. “Did you—”

“Yes.”

Crowley sighs happily, going boneless on top of Aziraphale. Aziraphale collapses onto the mattress, suddenly far too weak to hold himself up in any capacity. Crowley eventually slips out of him, murmuring apologies when Aziraphale moans. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, sliding off Aziraphale only to sling an arm over him and pull him flush to his side.

“Don’t.” Aziraphale makes a great effort to turn himself over so he can see Crowley’s flushed face up close. “That was perfect.”

Crowley hums, performing a little satisfied wiggle that Aziraphale is far too content to hide his fondness of. “No small praise from you.”

“My standards are very high,” Aziraphale agrees. He traces the sharp edge of Crowley’s jawline with one finger. “You were certainly, ah. Up to snuff, as it were.”

“As it were.” Crowley has a glint in his eye. He leans in, and Aziraphale closes his eyes in anticipation of a kiss. Instead, he feels Crowley’s tongue lapping over his cheek.

“Ugh.”

Crowley laughs and pecks his cheek. “Wanted to taste the proof.”

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “You really are strange.”

“Mhmm.” Crowley kisses his nose. “Have to be, for you, don’t I?”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale says, and shuts him up.

**Author's Note:**

> was he crying at a meg ryan film? were they not in a theater and were it not 2019 in the tv verse, the answer would be a resounding yes.


End file.
